Mission (Part One)

I remember the moment well, just as if it happened only yesterday. I was so high on the Holy Spirit, so in touch with God, so much in love with the Healer of my many hurts and infirmities. And I was so thirsty for His Word that I no longer cared what anyone thought about my reading a Bible right in the middle of UP Coop canteen, as I was eating lunch by myself.

“Ate, ate.”

I looked up from the fascinating words of scripture and saw that a pre-teen girl had seated herself on the bench in front of me, and was now eyeing my meal.

Go away, I’m reading God’s word! The thought silently went through my head as I tried to pretend I wasn’t sharing the table with anyone.

“Sige na, ate,” she repeated, and this time I felt a familiar twinge of annoyance. She didn’t look very impoverished at all; in fact, she looked like she had cleaned up earlier that day, and was even wearing a pair of good looking jeans. The rising irritation grew as another young lady, apparently a friend of my seatmate, joined us at the table with a tray of half-eaten food scored from another table.

“Patawad ha,” I managed to squeak out, as I returned to the Psalms or Malachi or whatever the heck I’d been reading at the time, and to the rest of my lunch. I couldn’t enjoy it very much anyway with the two little mendicants in front of me eating leftovers and constantly eyeing my own P50 meal, so I picked up the pace and chewed as fast as I could, quickly taking my leave without a second glance at the kids. I’m pretty sure they managed to clean up the leftovers on my tray even before I’d gone out the door.

Conscience is one of the most unpleasant necessities in life. Mine is particularly irritating in that it nags me to Kingdom come and won’t quit until I acknowledge and give in to it (it’s God’s voice, after all, so He can afford to be pushy). In this particular case, my conscience didn’t hit home until many hours later, and even then I had a (feeble) defense. I just wasn’t ready to help, at that particular moment. Maybe someday soon, when the Lord would prepare me better.

Thinking back, I can only say…what a crock.

At that particular point in time, I was almost done with my second reading, cover-to-cover, of the Bible. I could quote scripture at the drop of a hat. I’d received some of the greatest teachings and instruction from talks, exhortations, and retreats – I’d even given a few myself. I could even unabashedly worship the Lord from the frontlines, with the best of His worship warriors.

But faced with a hungry child, I had no idea what I was supposed to do, or if I should do anything at all.

One of my favorite spiritual analogies is that of the Dead Sea and the River Jordan. The former is called such because it continually receives deposits from other bodies of water but does not give anything out; it can hold no living thing in its salty, over-mineralized waters, and thus it is “dead.” On the other hand, the Jordan receives water and minerals from other bodies of water, and likewise gives out what it receives through various tributaries. Unlike the Dead Sea, the River Jordan is teeming with life.

I was unwittingly turning into the Dead Sea in my self-centered, comfort-zone Christianity, and God was carving out tributaries to keep that tragedy from taking place. In the next few weeks, He bombarded me with all sorts of situations and circumstances to soften up my salt-saturated hardened heart. The one recurring character He put in the forefront of all these was His “little pencil,” that modern day saint who lived and loved in the streets of Calcutta and carried the Lord’s light into the darkest corners of destitution. Everywhere I looked, there was Mother Teresa. Her life story left me bawling; her life’s work left me ashamed and inadequate. I knew I could never do what she did, so I wept many, many sorrowful tears over my incapacity. One time, in prayer, during one of those weeping sessions, I implored God for the grace to do what His “little pencil” did. Little did I know that I had asked Him for something He was all too willing to give.

It was almost 7:30 on a Tuesday night, and I was rushing to get to a bible study session at Christ the King in Greenmeadows. We were studying the Old Testament, there was going to be a quiz, and our session leader was notoriously tough on latecomers. My usual traffic route was jammed, so I had to look for an alternative way – and when I found it, I had a sudden hankering for a Vietnamese sandwich dinner. I parked my car, placed my order, and crossed the street to a convenience store to buy drinks. As I did, a woman met me from across the other end, sidling up uncomfortably close, while mumbling, “Ma’am, barya po.” I was horrified by the stench that surrounded her like a cloud of putrefied perfume, and avoided her as fast as my feet could take me. This time, my conscience was quick to rise up and cuff me on the neck. I tried to seek out the same woman as I made my way out of the store, but I still had no idea what to do, or if I had the courage to do it. Once again I wept, in frustration, for what I did not and could not do. All these last days I had so looked up to what Mother Teresa was doing, but when faced with what I needed to do for one single person in my own city, I was once again at a loss.

But then it was if the Lord said, just do it.

(To be continued)